by J. Hope Stein
When astronauts look at earth from space,
they don’t see borders.
They don’t see the flag-flown territories of So-and-So.
No cattle no stockpile no checkpoint.
They see life on earth from the cockpit
of ayahuasca or mescaline or peyote
or whatever vehicle it is
that allows one to see—
Five—four—three—two—one—
I lift my daughter over my head—
Even this linguini
of drool
that noodles
its way from the interstellar of her mouth
to my nose-tip
(never been kissed like this)
is a connection.
From:
Little Astronaut
Copyright ©:
2022, Andrews McMeel Publishing, Kansas City, Missouri
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